


And Tomorrow

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Cuddling, Gen, July 1830, injuries, late-night political discussion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the barricades of 1830, Combeferre tends the wounded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Combeferre didn’t join in the march to the Hôtel de Ville. There were wounded to tend at the barricade they’d manned through the night, and now that the fighting had moved on he found himself with the time and relative quiet to tend to them properly, to see that they could make it home, or at least be helped there. He worked until he ran out of supplies, with only one man left—and who else could it be but Laigle de Meaux? 

 

“You see?” Laigle said cheerfully. “I knew if you saved me for the end, your supplies would last you through everyone else.”

 

“Can you walk?” Combeferre asked. “I live rather near, and I’ve more supplies there.”

 

“I can stagger. In fact, if it’s near enough, I think I can even manage to hobble,” he said as Combeferre helped him carefully to his feet.

 

“I’d judge it well within hobbling distance,” Combeferre replied with a smile.

 

Slowly, stumbling, they made their way there without mishap (which was, Laigle noted, nearly a miracle). Once tended to, Laigle immediately fell asleep, leaving Combeferre to listen to the sounds of fighting grow increasingly distant, until by nightfall, as far as Combeferre could hear, the city had fallen silent. Well into the night, a sudden and insistent pounding on the door startled Combeferre from his reverie.

 

“Come in,” Combeferre said, rising—the only people who would knock so loudly so late at night were friends or gendarmes, and unprepared as he was, Combeferre decided all he could do was hope for the former. And indeed, it was Courfeyrac who appeared in the doorway, flanked by Enjolras and Joly. Courfeyrac sported a bloody cloth ‘round his forehead so jauntily he could nearly have passed it off as a new fashion.

 

“We lost you,” Courfeyrac said, sitting dutifully before being asked so that Combeferre could untie the cloth.

 

“I looked at it— only quickly,” Joly said, moving to stand at Combeferre’s side. “It’s not very deep, but you know how those things bleed—”

 

“You stayed behind?” Enjolras asked.

 

“To help the wounded,” Combeferre replied, rising to fetch water to wash the blood from Courfeyrac’s forehead.

 

“I thought as much.” Enjolras stayed by the doorway. He looked wound tight, shoulders hunched, his arms folded across his chest. Combeferre passed the water off to Joly and moved to lay a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder.

 

“Where are the others? What happened at the Hôtel de Ville?”

 

“We took it!” Courfeyrac interjected, startling Joly into sloshing water onto the floor.

 

“The Swiss regiments fled,” Enjolras said with a short nod. “Discussions had begun before sunset.”

 

“Any word?”

 

“Orléans.” Courfeyrac all but spat the name; it sounded like a curse. “The King is deposed, long live the King. Or so it will almost certainly be.”

 

A silence settled over the room, and Combeferre understood Enjolras’s tense shoulders and Joly’s downturned eyes. The past three days had been strange and almost surreal—paired with this news, it seemed to Combeferre easy to believe that perhaps they had not happened at all.

 

“Where are the others?” Combeferre asked again. Of Orléans there seemed to be nothing more to say—or rather too much to say here and now, exhausted and dejected in a little room in the middle of the night.

 

“There’s still fighting here and there. I suspect Bahorel’s running off his frustrations. Well, that,” Courfeyrac mused. “Or he’s home with his mistress. In either case, we saw him safely off not long ago.”

 

“Prouvaire and Feuilly are unharmed as well,” Enjolras said. “And gone home.”

 

“And Laigle—”

 

“We don’t know where he’s gone,” Joly burst out, resulting in yet more water spilling to the floor.

 

“—is here,” Combeferre finished mildly, offering Joly a small smile. “In bed, in the other room.”

 

Joly thrust the bowl of water into Courfeyrac’s hands and moved instantly, wordlessly, into the bedroom. Courfeyrac laughed and watched him go.

 

“He’s in no danger, is he?” Courfeyrac asked, glancing at the darkened doorway.

 

“There’s always danger of infection, but I did my best. I’m optimistic.” Combeferre followed Courfeyrac’s gaze. “He oughtn’t to move for a few days, at least, of course—”

 

“During which time, you’ll stay with me, naturally,” Courfeyrac said, holding up a hand when Combeferre began to protest. “I’ve an extra mattress, and you do not. Come by to see to your patient—if you really think Joly will leave his side—and then come get a proper night’s sleep at mine. Starting tonight,” he added with a grin as Enjolras broke suddenly into a loud yawn.

 

“Stay here tonight,” Combeferre said, pulling another chair away from the table and beckoning Enjolras over. Enjolras, rendered more docile than usual—presumably, Combeferre thought, a product of not having slept in three days—crossed away from the door and sunk wordlessly into the chair, bracing his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. “I’ve no desire to go all the way across the river.”

 

“You don’t have anything to eat, do you?” Courfeyrac asked hopefully.

 

“I’ve not been here in three days,” Combeferre reminded him. Courfeyrac sighed melodramatically, draping himself against the back of the chair.

 

“I only thought—here you were, loafing about at home while we slaved over a hot fire, forging you a brand new Republic—” He broke off abruptly, and his gaze slid downwards. “And we were damn close, too.”

 

“It is certain, then? About Orléans?” Combeferre folded his arms across his chest.

 

“We didn’t stay to hear for sure,” Courfeyrac admitted, glancing at Enjolras, who still hadn’t lifted his head. “But the rumors were getting increasingly confident. Besides which, we were exhausted—Feuilly fell asleep right on the floor, and Joly wanted to find Bossuet and I wanted to find you, so—we decided to adjourn.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “You can wake Bossuet if you’re in the mood for optimism, and I’m sure he could manage it, but I find it’s beyond me at the moment.”

 

“There’s no use for it.” Enjolras straightened at last, pushing his hair out of his face with an impatient gesture. “Things will only be harder now, there’s no point denying it.”

 

“Why do you say so?” Combeferre asked. “Surely the people have shown they are ready and willing to rise—”

 

“And now they will be very proud of themselves for having done so, and will decide that this is all good enough, really, might as well call the job finished,” Courfeyrac said with a sarcastic smile.

 

“We’ve lost momentum,” Enjolras agreed. “Expended our energy too soon.”

 

“You’re a scientist, you know building momentum is no easy thing.”

 

“I do, but I don’t think it’s as easily lost as you think,” Combeferre said. “Change is change, movement is movement—”

 

“Even if it’s movement backwards?” Enjolras asked, his voice sharp and skeptical.

 

“The people exerting their will is always forward movement,” Combeferre protested gently. “However half-hearted that exertion may be.”

 

Enjolras began to reply, but Courfeyrac cut him off. “This is entirely unfair.”

 

“How so?” Combeferre asked, taken aback.

 

“You’ve had the opportunity to rest,” Courfeyrac said. “Your eloquence is simply appalling at the best of times—in this state, we haven’t a chance. Look at Enjolras, he’s falling asleep in his chair.”

  
“I’m not,” Enjolras interjected, not wholly convincingly.

 

“At any rate,” Courfeyrac continued. “I move to set aside this conversation until tomorrow. Perhaps it will look less entirely depressing in the daylight.”

 

Combeferre laid his hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and Courfeyrac clapped his own hand on top of it. They stayed like that for a moment, Courfeyrac leaning his head against their clasped hands. In the other chair, Enjolras’s head wilted further and further forward until he started himself awake with a gasp, the sound of which pulled Combeferre back to attention.

 

“Come,” Combeferre said, starting back towards the bedroom. “Let us see what we can do in the way of a bed.”

 

“After the past three days, anything that isn’t made of paving stones will feel positively palatial,” Courfeyrac said, rising to follow, and Combeferre smiled as he passed through the doorway. The candle had been set on the end table and was almost burned down, but still flickering. Joly had fallen asleep, curled up at Laigle’s side. Laigle, pale but sleeping peacefully, had one arm tucked protectively around Joly’s shoulders.

 

“Really,” Courfeyrac whispered. “Just because a man gets shot on a barricade, he thinks he can take up the whole bed…”

 

Enjolras, meanwhile, had gone wordlessly to the trunk in the corner and begun pulling out Combeferre’s spare blankets, two startlingly ugly quilts sent the past two Christmases by an old aunt in Toulouse.

 

“Why, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said in a tone of mock scandal. “I daren’t even imagine how you have come to know Combeferre’s bedroom so intimately.”

 

“I’m glad to see your spirits are returning,” Enjolras murmured before draping one of the quilts about himself and sinking to the floor beside the bed.

 

“I don’t mean to be glib,” Courfeyrac said with sudden intensity. He moved towards Enjolras and knelt beside him on the floor. “Really, I don’t. I’m so angry about it all, I can’t even think about it for long without wanting to—to— I don’t know what—”

 

“That is what we shall do tomorrow,” Enjolras interrupted. “Decide what.” He lifted the edge of the quilt, and Courfeyrac crawled gratefully underneath.

 

“I am grateful for your good humor. And for your optimism,” Enjolras added, lifting his head to look to Combeferre. “Now come.”

 

Combeferre obeyed, dragging the other quilt over his own shoulders and nestling in beside Courfeyrac, who immediately fell asleep and almost as quickly manage to splay himself in more directions and over more space than seemed physically possible. Someone, possibly Joly, was snoring. The floor, Combeferre thought sleepily, was only slightly more comfortable than the past few nights on the barricades had been. After all their work, tomorrow there would be a king. But there would also be a tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I just can't ever resist an excuse to put more Joly and Bossuet out in the universe.

The room was dark, but Joly didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust before making a beeline for the bed. Laigle was asleep, lying on his back, a bandaged arm folded over his chest. Joly crawled carefully up onto the bed beside him, trying to move slowly, to shift his weight so that the sinking of the mattress wouldn’t wake him. He’d hoped seeing Laigle would still the panicked fluttering of his heart, the incessant, too-fast thumping that had been ringing in his ears since they arrived at the Hôtel de Ville—and it did, some. There was a distinct relief in seeing him, in knowing that Combeferre had looked after him, knowing that he trusted Combeferre entirely… but his heart was still pounding and his hands still trembled. And Laigle was pale, he looked so white even against the white of the pillow and was that exhausted-pale or pain-pale or fever-pale?

 

Joly reached across the bed and brushed his fingertips against Bossuet’s forehead. Tired-pale, then. Pain-pale. He left his hand there anyway, gently rubbing his thumb against the place in Laigle’s brow where the wrinkles appeared when he was deep in thought. Laigle’s eyelids fluttered and Joly jerked his hand away, but it was too late— Laigle squinted up at him and offered a bleary smile.

 

“I knew it was you,” he said, voice hoarse from sleep. “Cold hands. Even in July. Even with things as hot as they’ve been.”

 

Joly clasped his hands self-consciously and offered a wan smile, but didn’t respond. Voices drifted in from the other room, too low to quite make out any words.

 

“Who’s here?” Laigle asked.

 

“Enjolras and Courfeyrac,” Joly replied. “We just arrived a few minutes ago, from the Hôtel de Ville.”

 

“Did you? And?” Laigle started to sit up, but groaned and seemed to think better of it. “What time is it?”

 

“I have no idea,” Joly admitted with a laugh. “Late. So late it’s early. So our usual time for conversation, I suppose.”

 

“Then do let’s get to it,” Laigle said, sounding for all the world as if they were tucked into Joly’s flat with a bottle of wine. “Come, tell me—what’s happened?”

 

Joly had lost track of Laigle long before they left the barricades behind, and he knew Laigle wanted the whole story, every incident accounted for since they’d seen each other last, since they’d repulsed the last wave of soldiers and Feuilly had grabbed him by the hand and hauled him over the top of the barricade and they’d taken off running down the street, merging with a whole stream of people who came together so suddenly and seamlessly that Joly still wasn’t sure whether they had joined the march or begun it.

 

Instead, though, he burst out, “We’ve lost.”

 

A silence. Joly turned away, shifting closer to the edge of the bed, his legs hanging over the side, his back to Laigle. He felt hollowed out and queer and his hands were still shaking.

 

“—what?” Laigle managed at last.

 

“Swapping one king for another, apparently,” Joly said. “We didn’t—we’ll know for certain in the morning, but— well, it didn’t seem worth waiting anymore. And now you must say something cheerful about it or I won’t be able to stand it.”

 

“I blame myself, really,” Laigle said thoughtfully after a slight pause. “Only I—truly, _only_ I have the luck to join in a revolution to overthrow a king and just end up with a second king at the end of it all.”

 

Joly started to laugh, but abruptly and without transition he realized that tears were spilling down his cheeks. The laughter grew choked and he scrubbed hastily at his face, but the tears were falling faster than he could stop them.

 

“Joly,” Laigle said gently.

 

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” Joly said quickly with a breathy laugh, cutting Laigle off before he could continue. “You should have seen Feuilly’s face, he was half asleep but you’ve never seen such an expression of—there’s revolutionary fervor for you, truly, and Enjolras had that look, that blazing kind of look he gets, and Bahorel went out to keep on bashing heads together, but I— I feel sick and my hands won’t stop shaking and I just feel, I feel so— …sad.”

 

“Come here,” Laigle said. “I can’t come to you, so you must come here. You’ve had no sleep and nothing to eat—even four wings couldn’t keep you up now, my little bird.”

 

Joly turned reluctantly back round, but the sight of Laigle, one arm outstretched to pull him close, demolished any remaining resistance. Joly scooted in, resting his head against Laigle’s chest as Laigle draped his uninjured arm around Joly’s shoulders, pulling him close.

 

“It’s just that it was all such a waste,” Joly said, voice partly muffled against Laigle’s chest. “Your getting hurt, it wasn’t for anything, and I feel like I’m going to be sick, I really do—”

 

“You’re just tired, _mon joli_ ,” Laigle said softly. “I could sleep for a week, myself. Things always look better after some sleep. And some wine, but we can see to that in the morning.”

 

“It is morning,” Joly mumbled, eyes already sliding shut. 

 

“Mmm, not yet,” Laigle replied. “Not until sunrise.”  


End file.
